


I have spread my dreams under your feet

by FakeCirilla9



Category: Equilibrium (2002)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship/Love, M/M, Pre-Canon, Self-Sacrifice, Slice of Life, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 07:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20702510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: Errol tries to make John feel.





	I have spread my dreams under your feet

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Yeats' poem, the one read in the movie.

1.

„We need to whack the guy,” said a young resistance fighter. “Preston is their top agent, the symbol of the system. Killing him off would be a great PR move for us, show our supporters and sympathizers how strong we are; give people hope.”

“No,” said Errol. Everyone’s eyes turned to him. “There is still hope for him, I’ve seen it.”

2.

He rarely saw human reflexes in John’s actions. Sometimes he doubted there were any. Maybe he just imagined it, saw it only because he wanted to, was desperate for it, keeping eyes and ears open for any sign…

There were moments, few and far between.

When John looked a bit too long at a confiscated picture.

When John listened to prohibited music the cornered rebels were playing with something akin to dreamy expression on his face.

When John showed almost anger being defeated during a training session.

But the other, more reasonable, logical, after-prozium-like voice whispered there was a second bottom to these bright moments of hope.

Looking at the piece of art only to confirm its authenticity before ordering to burn it.

The absent expression could be cold planning of how to best assassinate the offenders.

The almost frustration may come from the need of perfection in a fight for the system.

3.

“He’s handsome,” said Mary, peering over Errol’s shoulder at the picture of John he held in his palm, “pity if he’s on their emotionless side. Should I seduce him?”

“No,” Errol answered harsher than he intended. He had hope, he really believed, wanted to believe that someday John would open his eyes, but he knew it was a far possibility. John as he was now would kill Mary without a blink, if he only suspected she was a sense offender. Without hesitation, with cold blood and total self-control. 

“I don’t want to risk you.”

4.

At training sessions John was a perfectionist, his ruthlessness nearly imitated a true anger. Errol was using these times as an opportunity to touch him, reaching a hand for him, pushing with whole body against him, even if a sidestep would be more reasonable tactic-wise.

“Against rules,” hissed John.

“Rebels don’t fight according to the rules. And you lost, would be dead. The most important is to surprise the opponent.”

A feeble lie. But John was breathing faster, his cheeks reddened and sweat beaded on his skin. With his clothes and hair disheveled if only so slightly – that was the moment John looked the most undone. The most _human_ and not like the robotic, cold, senseless killing machine they wanted him to be.

5.

“Do you have sex with your wife?”

John’s expression shifted. He’d frown if he was not drugged with prozium.

“No, why?” he said as if the question didn’t make any sense to him. “We’ve got two children. Perfect replacement rotation, our genes would survive.”

Errol looked away from him, so John wouldn’t see his face. How could someone talk so evenly, mechanically about sex. Like there was no pleasure attached to it. And John would be breathlessly beautiful in bed, perhaps more so than in a fight.

“But don’t you need to relieve some tension?”

“What tension?” the almost frown was back there, “I relieve pent up energy during kata trainings, relax during meditation.”

“And that’s it? Don’t have wet dreams?”

Prozium was fucked up if it killed libido as well. How could anyone live like that. How could he himself live like that one day, without Mary kisses…

John was studying him with his beautiful dark devoid of emotions eyes. There was sharp intelligence and no mercy.

“Forget it,” Errol sighed, raising his hand to his face, pretending to rub his temple. “I’m not feeling the best, maybe I have a flu coming.”

“Perhaps you shall increase your dose?”

“Perhaps.”

Was it concern in John’s voice? Or was he deceiving himself again?

6.

During a raid John rescued him, shooting the one that had almost had Errol, even though purely statistically-wise he should have killed the chief of the offenders’ group, he got a clear aim at the now escaped guy.

Instead he choose to save Errol.

Errol was trying to slow his racing heart as John moved closer.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

John gave him a critical once-over and, finding no apparent damage, reloaded his weapon.

“Let’s kill them all.”

7\. 

The funeral was small. None wanted to be seen at outlaws grave. There rarely were funerals after an incineration, but John was the top cleric, so there were some concessions.

John did not took children with him. But he at least have come.

Errol put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He was about to say his condolences and how sorry he was for him, when his work partner turned his gaze on the hand, then on Errol’s face. Words died at Errol’s mouth and remained unsaid.

For John’s face was an emotionless mask, his skin pale but his eyes dry, without any shed tears for Vivianna, without dark circles from lack of sleep even. As if he never loved her.

With a sick feeling in his gut Errol realized John might in fact have never loved her, never felt anything for her other than the need to provide species’ survival how he had once put it.

Errol put down his hand.

8.

He was not imagining it. The change was minute, but visible for he who worked with John for so long, who knew him and his methods. John became even more merciless, more unfailingly in their bloody work. And Errol wanted to believe it was the rage after Vivianna’s death, not the compulsion to punish all the sense guilty people, as even John’s own second half turned out to be one of them, so the plague deserved to die even more after such betrayal. The second option would prove some emotional approach also, but Errol wanted to see John as a good man.

Good man, only senseless due to prozium.

9.

If he only stopped taking it.

Perhaps if Errol would destroy his dose, seemingly on accident…

But no, John was far too suspicious for such a scheme.

He needed something different, something in which John’s steel will would not hinder, but maybe even help- it’d have to be John’s own decision.

His friend needed just a little push.

And so, plan formed, Errol took the poetry book and made sure John saw it protruding from his pocket on their way home.

Now he sat in the empty church in Nether, as he’s been doing day after day the last two weeks, and waited for his friend to come. It would be the end for him, but for John it would be the beginning. And if his death was the only way to push John toward a true living, so be it.


End file.
